


Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of

by mydogwatson



Series: Quartet:  A Composition For 4 Voices [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, M/M, Marriage, Retirement lock, Sherlock Holmes and Bees, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:19:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6119092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The romance goes on, even in a cottage in Sussex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever Our Souls Are Made Of

**Author's Note:**

> Well, we are at the end of this short journey and I so hope you have enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I so appreciate each comment and kudo and the fact that so many of you come back to read every story that I write. I love writing these guys and see no end in sight.

Whatever our souls are made of,  
his and mine are the same.

-Emily Bronte

1

 

Sherlock Holmes has many excellent qualities and I genuinely appreciate every one of them. My admiration for his talents has been aptly [he would say excessively] demonstrated in the pages I have penned recounting our various adventures over the years.

However, honesty compels me to add that amongst those finer qualities he possesses, one will not discover patience ranking highly.

Or at all, really.

His petulant nature has not, I assure you, lessened at all as he has grown older. At least, by the time we set up house here in Sussex, so far removed from the hustle and bustle of London and its crime, there were fewer people and petty events to aggravate him.

Even his stubborn nature rapidly accepted the fact that being prickly while working at his hives served him very ill indeed. [Fortunately he has a physician on hand.] Furthermore, for reasons that I have never understood, his pique did not extend so far as to ever even severely chastise the dog. For Gladstone, it was all pats and sneaked treats.

All of which was fine and even admirable in its way, but lacking even the less-bright members of Scotland Yard upon whom to exercise his venom, poor Holmes was left with only one direction to vent his ire.

Luckily I have a thick hide, always have done, but it had toughened even more over our years together until it was well-nigh impenetrable.

In any event, his current irritable mood was brought forth not by the monotonies of a world too tedious to be borne, but by the fact that he was confined to bed for the second-day in a row. And not, as he had querulously, pointed out earlier, for any one of the pleasant activities our bed frequently saw.

But I stood firm on this. Sherlock Holmes was to stay in bed.

At any age, after all, even a mild pneumonia can quickly turn severe and honesty compels me to admit that neither Holmes nor I are any longer in the first flush of youth. Or even the second.

His lips, always tempting, took on an entirely familiar moue of petulance.

I held up one hand to halt him. “No arguments, please. You will not stir from this bed until I grant you leave. Which I will not do until your fever is broken and the coughing has ceased.”

I do not flatter myself unduly when I say that no one else on earth would have seen the look of misery that settled into those remarkable grey-green eyes. I patted his hand. “I only want you to be well, my love,” I said.

He acknowledged my concern, albeit only silently. “Some tea?” he asked hopefully; those words were so often a truce between us.

“A brilliant idea,” I replied in a teasing tone.

I left him contemplating the somewhat tortured perambulations of a tiny spider up the far wall and went to the kitchen. By necessity, my tea brewing skills had increased dramatically since our departure from Baker Street. Our local charlady only came in three days a week to tidy and prepare several simple meals for us to have on hand. The rest of the time, we coped on our own, which meant that the responsibility for tea and some meals was mine. Luckily I had been a soldier and so can adapt to changing situations.. [Although Holmes would wish me to add that he has become something of a dab hand with toast and eggs.]

Any inconvenience, I can assure you, was more than offset by the precious privacy in which we could be ourselves without fear of censure or worse.

Holmes was coughing again when I walked back into the bedroom with the tea tray, but it did sound less phlegmy that it had. I did not tell him that, of course, because he would have seized upon it as a reason to immediately run out to the apiary so he could check on his precious bees.

We had our tea and shared bites of a slice of fruitcake, talking idly about household matters. You might well remark on the unlikelihood of the world’s fabled first and only consulting detective, Mr Sherlock Holmes, taking it in turn to eat the last portion of a slightly stale fruitcake while discussing roof tiles and coal supplies, but this is our life now.

In the event you are wondering, I do not regret that we have come to this. Further, I sincerely believe that if you were to ask Holmes, he would [after calling you an idiot, probably] say the same thing. After all, he has held me in his arms and told me so many times.

I stood finally, but did not immediately lift the tray. Instead, I reached out with one hand to sweep several silver-tipped curls from his forehead before placing a kiss there. His skin felt somewhat less warm than it had earlier. “Rest now, my love.”

He sighed, but did not argue. 

His faced looked so dejected, however, that I wanted to try and cheer him a bit. “If things continue as they are going, tomorrow you might be able to sit in the garden for some time and watch your blasted bees.”

His lips turned up just a little.

As I started for the door, he said, “Thank you, John, for the care you take of me.”

I only smiled and went to wash the teacups.

Gladstone kept me company in the kitchen. I could hear him snuffling some crumbs from the floor, the soft hum of bees at their work and the faint sound of Holmes snoring in the bedroom. While not the stuff of legends, these closing chapters [although there is still much to come, I hasten to add} see us content. Whatever new adventures come along, Holmes and Watson will face them together and we will probably chuckle as we do.

When all is said and done, we have reached this place in our life together with very few regrets, none of them important, and so who could ask for more? Not John Watson, that is certain. Nor Sherlock Holmes either, I venture to say.

Finished with my chores, I made myself another cup of tea and took it, along with the book I was in the middle of reading, back to the bedroom. I would sit and wait for Sherlock to awaken. 

 

***

2

 

I know that it has been some time since I have posted anything on this blog, folks, as so many of you have kindly [or not so kindly] pointed out to me. In my defence, however, I did not really think that you would be riveted by even the most scintillating report of how I was unloading boxes of books and kitchen supplies. Or of my conversations with the plumber, the electrician, or the plasterer. Nor did I imagine that any of you were gasping for details of life with an annoying git who used to be a consulting detective [the only one in the world he would demand that I remind you] in London, but who has now retired to the country to become [theoretically at least] a beekeeper. [Not the world’s only, but as he would undoubtedly want me to say, soon to be the best].

I say ‘theoretically’ because so far all he seems interested in doing is complaining, loudly and vociferously, about all of those things for which people move to the country in the first place.

Well, John Watson, some of you might be saying, you did marry the git and after all those years together you should have known exactly what to expect.

Sadly, I did know, of course, but I still got caught up in Sherlock’s enthusiasm. Swept away. As always.

All I can hope is that everything will get better when the bloody bees actually arrive. Or maybe that there is some kind of lovely [gruesome] murder nearby.

[You may grimace at that sentiment, but there is no hope for it. I was long ago dragged into Sherlock Holmes’ particular mad world and there is no escaping it now.]

Keep a good thought for me, friends.

Postscript:

All right. Maybe there is something to that whole Send a Wish Out into the Universe thing. And, thinking of poor Mr Blake, the late pastry chef, perhaps I need to be a little more careful about the wishes I send.

Who knew?

But let me begin at the beginning.

Shut up, Sherlock.

I arrived back from the village with the shopping [some things never change] and found that the bees had arrived and were already duly installed into the hives that had been waiting for them. That was such a relief to me that it took another moment before I realised that there was also an unknown car parked on the road in front of the cottage. I have not lived with Sherlock Holmes for so very long without learning a few tricks and so I somehow knew that it was an unmarked police vehicle.

After dropping the groceries in the kitchen, I walked through to the parlour.

Sherlock was there, sitting in his usual chair, which had been transported from Baker Street, hands pyramided beneath his chin, eyes bright. Despite the grey that had settled itself in many of the dark curls and the fine lines that now edged the unmistakable platinum and green eyes, I suddenly felt transported back to the days of our glory.

Before stepping further into the room, I quelled the helpless smile which had touched my face, but from the quirk upwards of Sherlock’s lips I knew he had caught me. 

“Ah, John,” he said, “So glad you are back. This is Detective Hall and that is Sergeant---”He paused.

“Tolland,” the heavily freckled and ginger young man inserted with a slight touch of irritation.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock said with an impatient wave of his hand. “Fine.”

All right, I have to admit that it felt pretty good to see this Sherlock again. [The mad world I live in, remember?]

Sherlock finally remembered the concept of basic courtesy. “This is Dr John Watson, my husband and partner.” I could still hear the undertone of pride that was always present when he said those words. And I was still humbled by it.

“Of course,” Detective Hall said. “Pleasure to meet you, sir. Love the blog.”

“Well, thank you,” I began. “It---”

“Everybody loves the blog, even the bloody King,” Sherlock broke in. “But perhaps a discussion about it might wait until after the case is solved.”

See my earlier remark about some things never changed.

I went to sit in my chair. “What’s happened?”

It was Sherlock who answered. “A local pastry chef has been found dead in his bakery.”

“Murder,” Tolland said with a certain amount of relish that I recognised.

And the game was on.

I drove as we followed the other car to a small bakery in the neighbouring village. The shop itself was decorated in a rather hideous concoction of pink and green that Sherlock complained actually hurt his eyes, but he looked much happier when we walked into the kitchen and saw the body of Richard Blake.

Who knew a person could drown in buttercream icing?

Yes, yes, Sherlock. It has been demanded that I point out that, technically speaking, Blake did not actually drown, but suffocated in the lemon-flavoured stuff.

Whatever. He was most definitely dead, his plump form draped over the butcher-block table, his face in a large steel bowl full of bright yellow icing.

Well, I think we all know how it went from there, don’t we?

Sherlock walked around the room for several minutes while I kept the officers from speaking to or bothering him. I know my role. [Of course, the other part of my role involves a gun, but luckily that was not necessary this time.] After a close study of the papers posted on a memo board and [for some reason] the inside of the massive freezer, he whipped around and told them the name of the murderer.

It was brilliant and I told him so.

Then he announced that his bees were waiting for him, grabbed me by the hand and dragged me out.

There is no title yet for this post. A Study in Lemon? Murder in the Bakery? Never mind.

All right. I understand. I can hear you all now. Admittedly, this blog post is lacking a bit in the detail you have come to expect from me. I didn’t even tell you the identity of the killer. [It was the ex-wife, of course, who also worked in the bakery.] Motive: she was in love with the man who delivered eggs to the bakery. Yeah, boring, just as Sherlock had muttered as we swept out of the crime scene.

But it is not my fault that this post is so…abbreviated. Blame the consulting detective-beekeeping git. Afraid I can say no more at the moment.

 

I shut the laptop and leaned out of the bed to shove it away.

Sherlock was stretched out next to me. “You said I was brilliant today,” he said as I settled down beside him.

“Well, yes,” I replied, not sure where the conversation was going. He had given me the distinct feeling that talking was not what he wanted to do, hence the abbreviated post. “You were.”

His fingers were tracing a soft pattern on my stomach. “You used to say that all the time, but now…well, I didn’t think you believed it was true anymore.”

I pushed myself up onto one arm and stared down at my husband. “Is that why you have been in such a snit lately? Because I am not calling you brilliant every ten minutes?”

He refused to answer, which was answer enough. 

“You are an idiot,” I said. “Of course I think you are brilliant. Quite amazing. Every day. But when you are just moping around the cottage complaining about fresh air and too much quiet and a lack of murders, I am not really in the mood to say what I am nevertheless thinking every single minute. How fantastic you are and how lucky I am to be here with you.”

Now Sherlock actually looked a little embarrassed, not a common look on his face. He chewed on his lower lip for a moment. “I was afraid that you would find me boring if I wasn’t being brilliant. You liked the excitement and I thought that you would miss it all.”

I gave him a little smile. “You are all I would miss, Sherlock. Whether you are being brilliant or bloody annoying, you are all I need. I cannot believe that you didn’t know that.”

He shrugged. “Well, I am an idiot, as you have been telling me from the beginning.”

“But you’re my idiot.”

He pulled me down on top of him and held me there. “Tomorrow I will show you my bees,” he said softly.

“Fine,” I said. “But right now I rather wish you would have your way with me.”

My brilliant, amazing friend and husband grinned at me and suddenly he looked very young and it was as if we were back in Baker Street about to make love for the first time. No matter how many years passed, part of us would always be that pair of madmen living in 221B and having our absurd adventures and I felt a quiet peace at that thought.

Sherlock put his mouth very close to my ear. “Stop thinking, John,” he whispered.

So I did.

***

3

 

Cases have become exceedingly rare in recent days. Recent months, really. Of course, the depths of Sussex are not famous for an excess of bloody or engaging crimes. [My Watson would say that most people would find that a blessing. But he would say it with an affectionate look in his eyes, so one cannot take offence.] He would also point out that, officially, I am retired. But even so, it would be pleasant to have an occasional enigma with which to occupy my mind. 

In addition to the dearth of excellent puzzles finding their way to my door, it must also be noted that the newest crop of policemen seem to have their own methods and only rarely give any thought to consulting the legendary Sherlock Holmes, even when he lives right in their midst. If any one of them does give me a thought, he would most likely envision me as nothing more than a dusty relic of times gone by.

Pshaw.

I am not as ancient as all that. The truth is that I retired much younger than people generally assume, so there is still spirit left in me, whether or not anyone chooses to make use of it.

Still.

I do understand their feelings. Small minds always take the easier route and that is to assume I am beyond my best days.

In any event, life for me is never really dull, even without some befuddled sergeant of police or government lackey beating a path to my door weekly with some simple riddle that is beyond their understanding.

Today, for example, I have journeyed to London on the train. I told Watson that it was to visit my brother, who has been rather unwell of late, and who wanted to discuss some family business. I granted my friend leave to avoid the whole monotonous proceeding and he accepted that offer with alacrity.

Good fellow that he is, he even offered to take a peek at my bees for me, although I know very well that he is not yet entirely comfortable around them. Further, he fetched a jar of honey for me to take to Mycroft. 

Watson has always been too willing to accept whatever I tell him as truth, although one would think that long experience would have taught him otherwise by now.

Steadfastness, though, defines my Watson.

Just to edge the lie with some bit of truth, I did indeed call in at the Diogenes and sat in the Stranger’s Room with Mycroft for exactly as long as it took to drink a single cup of tea and give him Watson’s gift, by which he actually seemed a bit touched. Overall, however, he was techy enough that I was assured of his returned health and so would be able to report thusly to Watson.

Then, at long last, I could be about the real purpose of this excursion to London.

It must be admitted that going from one shop to another on a fruitless mission has never been an endeavour that I have undertaken with any pleasure at all. Only the determination to obtain a gift for Watson kept me at it.

I was now perusing, with little hope, a display case of fine leather pocketbooks, but knowing even as I picked up one or two and appreciated the feel of the soft leather, that Watson has little need of such accoutrements these days. He is a country gentleman.

Very shortly, I was again out on Jermyn Street and my mood plummeted even further.

This foolish holiday.

We had never been inclined to pay very much attention to 14 February, naturally enough, as sentiment was something we both held close, out of natural inclination as well as stark necessity. And, of course, the holiday was not meant for those of our nature. As if our love were somehow a lesser thing. We both know the truth of it, of course, and choose not to waste our time bemoaning the reality of the situation.

However, two years previously, Watson had unexpectedly gifted me with a rather fine Meerschaum pipe. He had tried to play it off as mere coincidence and having nothing to do with the particular day, but I can read him very well after so long a time. 

Watson intended the gift as a love token. As if every cup of tea he made me, every moment of exasperated albeit tender care to my inevitable bee stings, every kiss we shared were not daily tokens of his esteem. His love.

Last year, then, I had been prepared when he casually left a costly and very old Latin Herbal Material Medica on the breakfast tray for me. In return, I handed him a bottle of the very fine whisky that, because of his rather frugal nature, he will only rarely purchase for himself. He seemed pleased.

As a consequence of this shared and belated experiment in sentimentality, I now find myself spending an entire day entering and exiting the shops of London.

As I walked to my next destination, considering whether or not a new waistcoat might be appreciated [he still cuts a fine figure in properly tailored waistcoat] when, suddenly, a cry went up very nearby.

“Thief! Stop, thief!”

As I turned to discover the source of the hubbub, a young fellow in rough workingman’s clothing came running in my direction. As everyone around me seemed transfixed by the drama, I stepped forward, held out my walking stick and tripped the miscreant. He fell flat and I placed one foot firmly on his spine. “Better for you to just accept your fate,” I said, not unkindly.

His only response was to sigh and rest his cheek against the pavement.

Suddenly there was a bright flash. I blinked and looked up to encounter a face quite familiar from my years in the city. “Albright,” I said in greeting.

The photographer for one of the most popular newspapers, a sheet filled with crime and sin and great delight in it all, gave me a grin. “Mr Holmes! What a surprise! Have you returned to fighting crime, then?”

I shook my head. “This was mere happenstance.”

A moment later, a breathless constable finally arrived and I hoped that I could be on my way, as my errand remained undone.

But the whole matter seemed to raise much more excitement than it deserved and shortly I even found myself being bundled along to Scotland Yard, where there was another reunion, this one with Dimmock, now a detective inspector. Word of my involvement had leaked out and more members of the press appeared. I could scarcely see clearly because of the repeated flashes of the cameras. It was very tedious, explaining what had happened over and over.

I quickly wearied of it all, but fortunately as the time for my train back to Sussex neared, an idea occurred. A few quiet words with Dimmock and one or two others put my plan into action and I was transported to the train station in good order.

Watson was pleased to hear a good report on my brother’s improved health and we spent a most pleasant evening over our pipes and a quiet conversation about nothing very significant.

 

I was up by dawn, ready to intercept the messenger before he could pound on the door and awaken Watson. Then I exercised my rarely used skills in the kitchen, preparing eggs and toast before brewing a pot of tea, setting the feast on the table just as Watson walked in.

“What’s all this then,” he asked, still knotting his dressing gown. Not so tightly, I was pleased to note, that it would be difficult for me to untie it. If things went that way. It was Valentine’s Day, after all. A time for romance, as I understand it.

“This is breakfast,” I announced grandly. “And a gift for you.”

He cast me a sceptical glance, but I could see in his face that he was prepared to be pleased if his odd companion had decided for some inexplicable reason that a pile of London newspapers was an appropriate gift. He has always been so tolerant of my peculiarities.

“Sit,” I said, pouring his tea and spreading some honey on his toast.

He sat and after a moment, pulled the newspapers closer. It was then that he saw on every front page a picture of Sherlock Holmes. Standing on a London street with a criminal held beneath his foot. At Scotland Yard under the gaze of admiring policemen. There were a dozen papers and each one carried the story of how the venerable consulting detective had once again thwarted the criminal class.

As Watson read and looked at the photographs, the smile never left his face. “Hero of the day,” he said finally, pushing the pile of papers aside. He reached across the table and took my hand. “Of course, you are my hero every day.”

“Am I? Even now?”

Instead of replying, he stood and tugged me up, then wrapped his arms around me. “May I show you how much I adore you?”

I could feel the slight flush on my face, even after so long a time.

My John [in our intimate moments I am allowed the honour of that endearment] led me back to our bedroom and neither of our dressing gowns proved an impediment to our celebration of the day. And sometime later, when we still lay in a sweaty and sticky tangle of limbs, he reached across to the bedside table and produced tickets to a programme I had expressed a longing to see at Covent Garden. We stayed as we were, idly talking of a weekend in London, as our hands still moved in lazy caresses.

He gave a sudden giggle.

I queried him with a raised brow.

“One of those journalists called you a ‘detective for the ages;’ ” he said after a moment.

My expression of offence was entirely put on, of course.

“No, no,” he immediately soothed. “I do not disagree with that remark. It only amused me to consider that in such a case, our love affair might also be one for the ages.”

I pulled him on top of my body. “I have always known that. Have you not?”

“Perhaps the poets of a future time will write sonnets about us,” my lover suggested lightly, as he nuzzled my jaw.

“Properly so,” I said haughtily.

I could feel his smile against my skin, but he did not respond in words. Instead, John Watson gave me a kiss that should certainly be noted in the annals of this or any other era.

***

 

4

 

It wasn’t my fault.

Really.

Tell me, after all, how is a man with several thousand bees to monitor and care for, who is also in the middle of writing [trying to write] his magnum opus on forensics supposed to remember everything? Especially when he is also married to a man who still keeps him entertained in so many ways [in and out of bed]? Can he really be expected to remember something so meaningless?

Well, all right, that last item [the whole having an entertaining husband thing] might have given me a clue, but as has been pointed out, most often by said husband, I am sometimes an idiot.

Admittedly, John had spent a good portion of the day in the kitchen, so clearly he was making something special for dinner. But sometimes he does that, just to please me.

Finally, leaving something in the oven [maybe the thing with peas?] John took the dog out for a walk.

He seemed to be keeping something from me, so I snooped around the kitchen [roast chicken and the thing with peas!] but was left no wiser. So I went into the bedroom and did the usual search of the drawer that held his pants and [still sadly un-indexed] socks. And there, in the usual place, I found a small package wrapped in red paper. An attached gift tag had his familiar doctor scribble across it. 

_Happy Valentine’s Day,  
Love, John_

Damn.

Not really thinking about it, I hurried back to the kitchen and did some scribbling of my own.

_A quick errand. Back soon._

Then, just because I was perhaps [slightly] in the wrong here, I added a little more.

_Dinner smells delicious._

There was no need to take the car for so quick and easy an errand, so I just jumped on the ancient Vespa we’d found in the shed after moving into the cottage, and headed for the village.

Occasionally, even after all this time living out here, I still forget that we are not in London. I was reminded of that stark reality when I hit the High Street and saw that everything was closed. Well, there was a Boots still open and also the tacky tourist shop.

A desperate man will do ridiculous things.

Which explains why I prowled the aisles of both shops in the hope of finding a gift for John. Clearly he didn’t need a tea towel with a dreadful image of the Downs printed on it. And although Boots still had a rather dismal selection of Valentine’s candy and cards, none of it seemed right.

All too soon, I found myself back on the pavement, standing next to the scooter. Empty-handed. I had no gift for the man I love. Yet one more failure in a long history of trying to be a good person.

Well, the situation would not be helped if I were late for the dinner he had made especially for me, so I climbed back onto the Vespa and headed for home.

John was back in the kitchen when I walked in. “Ah, perfect timing,” he said, pulling the roast chicken from the oven.

I washed my hands and took my chair while he got the meal on the table. The gift sat next to my plate, but I did not reach for it.

After a few moments, John sat opposite me and smiled. “How was your errand?”

“Tedious,” I replied. Eager to do my bit, I poured us both some wine, then lifted my glass. 

“What are we toasting?” John asked with a faint smile.

“You. Us. Silly holidays.”

We tapped glasses and drank. 

The meal was excellent and I told John so as he stood to make tea. “Open your gift,” he ordered.

I toyed with the scribbled tag. Decided that perhaps in this case honesty was the best policy, although the triteness of the phrase made me wince. “John, I forgot…”

He set two cups onto the table and dropped a kiss on the top of my head. “Of course you did. And so you panicked and ran to the village.”

“Everyplace was closed,” I muttered.

“Never mind,” John said. “It’s the thought that counts.”

There was nothing I could say that wasn’t an apology and that was boring. Instead, I unwrapped my gift. Which turned out to be a framed photograph that I had never seen before. I remembered the moment it had been taken very well, however. It was not long after we had moved into the cottage and John and I had been standing in the apiary as I explained to him the process of harvesting the honey my bees had produced. I was looking down at him very seriously as I lectured and he was looking up at me in the way John always looked at me and it was perfect. Even if Mycroft, the only other person there that day, had obviously been the one to take the picture.

I ran a finger over the polished wood of the frame. “Thank you,” I said, but that was all I could get out.

He smiled, as if knowing exactly what I was really saying. He always knew.

We drank our tea and shared a slice of chocolate gateau from the village bakery. There was little conversation then or as we also shared the task of cleaning up the kitchen. He washed; I dried. Then we went into the parlour and sat together in front of the fire. First, however, I positioned the photograph on the mantel next to the skull and John poured two brandies.

I nuzzled at his ear for a moment and then sat back. “Have I ever told you the precise moment that I fell in love with you?” I said.

“No.”

My hand was making soft movements through his hair. “That’s because there was no single moment. You just slowly moved into my heart and by the time I realised what had happened it was too late to stop it even if I wanted to do so. Which I didn’t, oddly enough. And it was also too late to do anything about it, because I was standing on the roof at Bart’s, staring down at you.”

I hoped---and believed---that John would see my words as the gift they were meant to be.

We each took a sip of the excellent brandy, a recent gift from my brother. 

“Thank you for coming back to me,” John said.

“I will always come back to you,” I whispered, which was really a rather stupid thing to say, because I was never going away again. But it’s the thought that counts, right?

When the brandy was finished, John stood and took my hand. He led me into the bedroom and undressed me as if my body itself was the gift I had given him. Then I unwrapped him as well and we slid into the bed together.

Sometimes, even now, I am surprised at the feelings he can rouse in my body. In my transport. I have tried to analyse it all over the years, scientifically, but the data is still incomplete. Probably it always will be. Some things defy explanation, apparently. While that may irritate me as a scientist, as a man I am content to live in ignorance. 

We moved together, sweated and burned together, and then he entered me and we were completely together. “I love you,” he whispered and then he was coming inside me.

With that, I gave a gasping sob and came just after he had done and when it was over, we pulled no farther apart than absolutely necessary.

“It was always you,” I said. “And it will always be you.”

“Always,” he murmured in return. “Forever.” 

And then we slept.

***

_Unable are the loved to die,  
for love is immortality._

-Emily Dickinson

 

FINI

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick mention that if anyone reading this is going to be at 221B Con be sure to search me out!


End file.
